


Held by Thread

by Milo



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Slow Burn, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6391405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milo/pseuds/Milo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shachi thinks it was a bad idea to sew up the probable axe murderer in the alleyway. Penguin's not so sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The little pharmacy on the corner of main street and 7th avenue had this gross old smell straight out of the 70’s and a crusty linoleum tile floor to match. Penguin liked to avoid going there, running errands for basic stuff like medications was always Bepo’s job. But somehow, someway, he lost the game of rock-paper-scissors against the most predictable player. Bepo _always_ chose rock, how was he supposed to predict a surprise scissors?

He ran his eyes over the list. It was all basic supplies, honestly; aspirin, ibuprofen, gauze bandages, regular bandaids, the works. Law probably could have ordered these things in large supply from one of the suppliers, but no, he prefered to buy them as needed. Penguin tossed several rolls of gauze into the basket. Several of the crew had also asked for drinks ranging from soda pop to a specific brand of water. He huffed when he reviewed the list again. He was a nurse, not a errand boy.

The woman working the checkout looked about as old as the store itself, aged badly from chain smoking and working overtime. Penguin only laughed nervously whenever she made some kind of “clever” remark about what he was planning to do with all of these things. Get in, get out, don’t fraternize with the weird people behind the counters.

With the bill paid, Penguin wandered out of the shop and down the road, deciding to take the long way back. It was a nice day and Law didn’t need him for a couple hours. Why not enjoy the fresh air before he was stuck inside all day? He swung the bag back and forth as he walked, content to wander aimlessly for a bit. A middle aged man on his phone passed by, a family was crossing the street to get to the coney island, a couple of friends were chatting in front of a cafe...but it was still very quiet. Most people were busy with work, or school, it was a weekday after all.

As he passed by a certain alleyway, he glanced down it...only to do a doubletake. A man was in the alley, just laying there, head lolled to the side. Penguin couldn’t tell if he was unconscious or not, the blue and white mask hiding his face. He looked him over, silently debating whether or not it would be a good idea to do something…

...Until he noticed the gashes on his upper arm, which were bleeding profusely. He inhaled sharply, dropped his bag, and ran to the man’s side.

“Hey...Hey!” Penguin shook his shoulder. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Penguin stiffened and he drew his gloved hand back, finding it stained red with blood. The man didn’t respond. He looked between it and the torn up arm in shock. “Shit, you’ve lost a ton of blood...” he muttered. With his clean hand, he dug into his pocket for his phone. “I’ll...I’ll call the hospital, they can send--”

A large hand stopped him. He gasped, and looked. The man, once seemingly lifeless, stirred to life.

“If you call the hospital, I’ll break your arm,” he said, voice hoarse but still ferocious.

Penguin decided that he liked his arm. He let his phone slide back into his pocket.

The man sat up shakily, clutching his still bleeding wound. Penguin eyed it with concern. It seemed fairly fresh, still raw around the edges. With him touching it with unclean hands like that, infection was very likely. And if he wasn’t heading to the hospital...how soon would he be able to clean it?

“Well, fine, I won’t call the hospital. But I can’t leave you like this,” he said, hunching down to meet the other man at eye level. “Like I said, you’ve lost a lot of blood already. If you lose any more, you might pass out in the street, and if it gets infected you could lose the arm…”

The man looked at him. “What are you, a doctor?” he asked.

“A nurse, actually,” Penguin replied offhandedly.

Wait...He turned back to look at the forgotten bag of medical supplies. Maybe he wouldn’t go to the hospital, but Penguin had more than his fair of experience with stitches. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough to keep this man from dying right now at least. He grabbed the bag and drew it near, searching for some wipes to clean his hands and the fresh box of gloves.

“What are you…?” the man said, tilting his head. 

“See, I could let you run off into the wild blue yonder to let your wounds fester, but I’m not going to,” Penguin replied as he cleaned the blood from his hand. He then popped open a box and pulled out two blue latex gloves. “Lucky for you, I’m a nurse on a supply run who’s paranoid as hell and carries an emergency suture kit. I can’t do much, but I _can_ make it so it’s at least clean.”

Once properly cleaned, he pulled a small zipper pouch out from his jacket pocket. He dug around for a fresh, unopened bottle of water in the contents of the bag, unscrewed the cap, and then drew the man’s arm close to him. The man seemed hesitant, but he made no move to pull away. Penguin looked at the scraps of shirt sleeve that were left and hummed.

“I’ll have to cut this off,” he said. “I don’t want to irritate the wound further.” He looked to the man’s masked face for a response. When he got none, he silently pulled an extra pair of scissors from the suture kit and cut the cloth off. “How are you on your shots?”

“Shots?”

“Yes, as in, Tetanus shots,” Penguin said. “Depending on what caused these cuts, you might need one. Just to be safe.” The man tilted his head in such a way that Penguin knew he was rolling his eyes. “Hey, y’know what they say: always listen to your doctor.”

“You’re _not_ my doctor,” he replied.

Penguin would have retorted that, but knew it would probably get him nowhere. This man was stubborn as hell and wasn’t too keen on listening. He lifted the bottle of water over the wound and carefully poured it over. It trickled down his arm calmly, dribbling down to his fingertips and onto the ground. The man tensed, but Penguin kept a firm grip on his arm to prevent him from pulling away.

“I’m just irrigating it,” Penguin explained. “It has to be washed before I can stitch it up. I wish I had some ointment but...this is the best I’ve got.”

The injured man said nothing, seeming content to just watch Penguin work now. When the blood was cleared away, the individual slashes were visible. Plenty of them were harmless, no more dangerous than a scratch, but a number of them were deep as well. He sighed. There went his last roll of sterile thread.

“If you’re squeamish, look away,” Penguin said, though the man continued to keep a focused gaze on him. He shrugged, and then set to work stitching one of the longer, wider cuts. “So, um...You going to tell me what happened?”

“Bastard caught me off guard,” the man replied. “I finished him, but he struck me down first.”

“Hmm,” Penguin hummed, wondering what he meant by that. “I guess you’re lucky I happened to come along then, huh.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been injured. I could have taken care of it myself,” he muttered.

“I don’t know about that. These cuts are pretty deep, man,” Penguin said. “Not even I can do stitches one-handed and I’ve been trained to do this.” He went along the length of the cut, stitching it tight before tying it, cutting it with sterile scissors, and moving along. “Maybe my boss could. He’s one of the most skilled doctors I’ve ever met. When he does stitches I swear they’re close to _godliness_. I speak from personal experience, I had to get some once.”

The two went silent as Penguin continued to fix up each and every cut. It had been a while since he stitched up someone out of the blue like this--the last had been Jean Bart, hadn’t it? He was always going and getting himself nicked up in the line of duty. Something something “Law wouldn’t ever have a scratch on him” something.

Soon, the cuts were all cared for. Neat criss-cross pattern roads covered the man’s red upper arm up and down and side to side. Cleaned, stitched, and ready for some clean rolls of bandages.

“Alright,” Penguin said, stepping back and scratching his nose. “I think you’re good.” When the man tried to get up, he reached out to stop him. “Good on _stitches_ , I mean. Let me cover the wounds with some bandages and then you can run off, okay?”

Penguin reached again into the bag and pulled out a fresh box of bandages. He reached out to the man again and began to wrap up his arm nice and tightly.

“You got a name, guy?” Penguin asked. Said guy looked at him. “Shachi’s going to ask what took me so long to buy some Ibuprofen and a couple cans of soda, might as well give him the name of the guy who made his drink go warm.”

The man hummed, looked toward the brick wall of the building in front of them, and then said, “Killer.”

Penguin blinked and furrowed his eyebrows. That was...suitable for a man who had just been in what appeared to be a knife fight. It was probably a street name, something to sound intimidating to his enemies. Though it also sounded like what someone might name their pet chihuahua just to be ironic. He snorted a little, muffling it with his hand so “Killer” wouldn’t live up to his name.

“Killer, huh. What a name,” Penguin said. “You can call me Penguin. It’s, uh, it’s not my _actual_ name, but it’s what everyone calls me.” He stood up, dusted off his gloved hands, and admired his handiwork. “All done! That wound won’t get infected anytime soon.”

Killer moved his arm to get a better look at it, running his right hand over the bandages. He seemed satisfied, though Penguin wished he could tell one way or the other--what was with the mask, anyway?

“Not bad,” Killer said.

“Not bad? It’s _great_ for a back-alley stitching job,” Penguin said. “Make sure it stays clean. Wash it daily and change the bandages after you do. I didn’t see any dirt in there, but this alley is _filthy_ , I wouldn’t be surprised if you got an infection.”

Killer hummed, and then turned away. “Sure. Whatever,” he said, waving him off. “I’ll keep it out of the mud.”

As he walked off, Penguin folded his arms and scowled at him. What an ungrateful, miserable patient. Of all the people he’d fixed up in the few years he’d been a nurse, Killer was definitely the worst. He could have just kept on walking, or stopped halfway, and then what? Killer would be a miserable pile of gangrene, that’s what. With a huff, he collected his bag and hurried off. So much for some fresh air.

Once he reached the familiar alleyway, he paused before he entered the laundromat that disguised their hideout. He looked down at the bag. He was down one roll of bandages, a couple gloves, and one large bottle of water. He’d need to head back into the pharmacy.

With a loud, irritated sigh, he walked back the way he came.


	2. Chapter 2

Spending lunch at a gas station with Shachi wasn’t what Penguin wanted to do on his day off. But somehow Shachi pulled him out of bed and talked him into it, and now here they were, each of them armed with a cold slush watching the sausages in the hot rollers rotate around. They looked, and quite frankly smelled, like they had been sitting out for more than twelve hours. Yet Shachi was still eyeing them fondly.

“Y’know what this gas station needs?” Shachi said. “French fries. They’ve got the ‘dogs, they’ve got the slushies, now they just need to complete the circle of food.”

“Please... _please_ tell me you’re not actually going to eat one of those,” Penguin said, groaning as Shachi licked his lips. “Shachi, dude, you have no idea how long those have been sitting out for.”

“Psh! It’s the fact that they’ve been out here this long which _adds_ to the flavor!” Shachi said. Penguin rolled his eyes. “They’ve got this...this taste I can’t really describe? Something totally unique...like, a secret ingredient, or...”

“Cholesterol,” Penguin answered, earning him an elbow jab to the side. “Seriously, can’t we get food somewhere that’s _not_ here? I’d rather eat something substantial.” Shachi ignored him, grabbing a hot dog bun in one hand and a pair of tongs in another. “There’s this great Thai place that opened up in the strip mall, or the sandwich shop down the road...”

“They sell sandwiches here,” Shachi said, pointing with his tongs to a tiny refrigerator on the other side of the convenience store. “Not bad prices either.”

Knowing full well that Shachi wasn’t going to abandon his greasy, grimy hot dog, Penguin groaned and decided to try his luck with the sandwiches. At least those were better than old hot dogs or donuts.

He walked past two aisles of candy and junk food to get to the little display. There was a variety of choices; two kinds had ham, another two were turkey, and a third option with roast beef, some with egg salad or chicken salad. Honestly, none of those sounded very appetizing, and they too had probably been made days ago. He could make better sandwiches at home. However, he was hungry and watching Shachi chow down on his hot dog would be too miserable to bear. The ham and swiss sounded the least awful, so he selected that one. It didn’t look too old, maybe it had been made that morning?

As he read the nutrition facts on the back of the packaging, wincing at the high fructose corn syrup, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Shachi was waving to him, face contorted to a frightened look. Penguin furrowed his eyebrows and frowned.

“What?” he asked. Shachi gestured frantically for him to come over. He reluctantly did. “What is it?”

“Back right corner, by the iced coffees,” Shachi whispered loudly.

Penguin gave him a look before he turned and looked in the direction specified. A very muscular man with short blond hair and a goatee was leaning up against the wall, holding a magazine in his hand. His bangs covered his eyes, but didn’t cover the scowl on his face. And he was looking directly at them. Penguin flinched.

“Why is he looking at us,” Penguin whispered back, panicked.

“Don’t ask me, he was looking at you first,” Shachi countered. “He was staring at you the entire time while you picked out that sandwich, it was freaking me out. What’d you do?”

“Nothing! Keep your voice down, he might be able to hear us,” Penguin whispered.

“Think we can take him?” Shachi asked.

“Are you kidding? The guy’s _huge_. We’ll be lucky if we can hold our own,” Penguin said. “Look, let’s just buy our food and leave. If he tries something, I’ve got Jean Bart on speed dial.” Shachi looked relieved the moment he said it.

“Right, okay, let me just finish making this hot dog,” Shachi said...and then proceeded to make a lopsided design out of the provided ketchup and mustard.

“What the...Shachi, can’t you just put the condiments on like a normal person when we’re in public?” Penguin hissed. “And, y’know, being _stared down_ by a creepy _thug_?”

“It’s not a hot dog if there’s not a dog face on it. Even if we die I still want my hot dog to look nice,” Shachi replied as he completed the “design” with a droopy smiley face. “There! Okay, _now_ we can go.”

Food in hand, they scurried off to the counter, wallets at the ready. The red-haired man at the register seemed to be a bit out of it, as he sluggishly typed in Shachi’s purchase without a care in the world. Penguin stood behind him, nervously glancing back at the thug. He’d since put back his magazine and was making his way toward the cash register with an iced coffee in hand.

“Shachi,” Penguin said. “He’s coming this way.”

Shachi smacked a twenty on the counter. “Keep it cool, Penguin,” he said. “Pretend like he’s not even there.”

Oh, yes, that wouldn’t be difficult. It was easy to ignore a giant bodybuilder of a guy who stood at least a good six inches over both of them. As Shachi took his food back, Penguin tried his best to keep his cool. He set his blue slushie and ham sandwich on the counter and dug around for his wallet. The man at the counter seemed completely unconcerned about everything.

“Uh...hm...um…” Penguin pulled out his pockets. Phone, old receipts, some loose change...no wallet. His wallet wasn’t to be found. Had he really forgotten his wallet in their hurry to get here? “Shit, uh...”

He laughed nervously and looked back at Shachi for help...only to find that Shachi was nowhere to be found. Oh, perfect. He’d left him alone with the convenience store murderer. Great. He looked up at the taller man, who was staring back down at him.

“Oh, uh, if you...if you want to go ahead of me,” Penguin began, stepping out of the way, “I think I lost my--”

“Forgot your wallet?” The man responded.

Penguin blinked.

Wait. That voice…

“... _Killer_?”

Killer smirked slightly and stepped up to the counter. He pulled out his own wallet and took out enough money for both of them, much to Penguin’s surprise. Then, he handed Penguin both items wordlessly and headed for the door. Penguin followed right out after him with a smile.

"Hey, uh, that was...really nice of you,” Penguin said. Killer glanced at him, but still said nothing. “Haha! Man, I barely even recognize you without that mask. Here I thought you were coming to kill me or something.”

Killer shrugged. “I don’t have a reason to,” he said.

“Say, what happened to your, uh, your hair?” Penguin asked, miming Killer’s long, flowing locks with his sandwich hand. “If I may ask.”

“Extensions,” Killer replied. “It’s not my actual hair.”

“Oh,” Penguin said. “Well, you did a good job throwing me off like that. You should’ve said something.” He put the straw of his slushie to his mouth and sipped the melting contents. “It’s been a couple weeks since I saw you. How’s the wound looking? Have you been keeping it clean?”

“What, do you want to see it?” Killer replied, giving Penguin a look.

Penguin stopped walking. He made a face at Killer. “Actually, yeah, I’d _love_ to see it,” he said. “Those stitches aren’t made from steel, it’s easy to reopen the wound if you’re not careful. A check-up would be for the best.”

Killer eyed him in what was probably another tempt to look menacing, but now that Penguin knew he wasn’t a threat, it had no effect. He made a face right on back. He fixed him up without asking for anything in return, couldn’t Killer be a little more grateful that he was going out of his way to do this?

“ _Fine_ ,” Killer said.

He reached over to his shirt sleeve, rolled it up, and revealed the stained bandages underneath. Penguin’s demeanor immediately changed from stubborn to concerned. They weren’t the same bandages as what he used, meaning that Killer had at least followed along with his directions to put fresh ones on daily. Hopefully he was keeping it clean. Penguin set aside his drink and sandwich on an ice box so he could undo the wrappings. He inwardly cursed himself for not having washed his hands prior, but so long as he didn’t directly touch him, it would probably be alright.

“These bandages are due for a change,” Penguin said. “Replace them when you get home, alright?”

“Sure thing, Doctor Pingu,” Killer muttered.

“First of all, the name’s _Penguin_. Secondly, I’m not a doctor,” Penguin said, continuing to unravel the bandages. “Don’t have my PhD.”

He hummed as he looked over each set of stitches. The tiny scratches were healed, and a few of the stitched gashes were still neat and tidy...save for the longest one of the bunch. He sighed. Of course it would be that one to open up again.

“Looks like you’ve been overexerting yourself,” he said. “This is exactly what I was worried about. The stitches on your longest cut came loose and the wound is open again. It won’t heal properly like this.”

“So fix it,” Killer said.

“Oh, sure, let me just pull my nonexistent sewing kit out of my empty pocket,” Penguin replied sarcastically. Killer gave him an annoyed look and he huffed in response. “Look, I don’t have the materials to sew you up again, but I do keep some butterfly stitches back at my apartment. Give me like ten minutes and I’ll fix you up.”

That was that. Penguin rushed home, half-melted slushie and slightly smashed sandwich in his hands. Shachi had been the only one with the key, which left him to find the one they hid under a rock. Luckily, it was still there, and within moments Penguin rushed into the apartment. He placed his food on the counter and went directly to the medicine cabinet. Where did he put those Steristrips?

“Penguin? Pen, is that you?” Shachi called.

Penguin paused in foraging when he remembered that he was still annoyed with his roommate.

“Why the hell did you ditch me, you ass?” he snapped.

He heard the telltale sound of Shachi tripping over a chair and scrambling across the carpet to their little kitchen unit. Seconds later, Shachi peeked into the kitchen.

“Dude! I thought you were like right behind me up until I got here,” Shachi said. “Then I turned around, and you were gone, and I freaked out. I tried calling you like six times, man. I was ready to get Bepo and Jean Bart to kick that guy’s ass.”

Penguin reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone to check his missed calls. Sure enough, six missed calls from “Whale Master”. Oh. He must have been distracted by Killer and hadn’t noticed. Shachi let out a relieved sigh, dropping his grumpy expression almost immediately.

“Look, whatever, I’m just glad you’re alright,” he said. “Did that guy give you any trouble?”

“No, it was just...a misunderstanding, that’s all. Have you seen our butterfly stitches?” Penguin asked, sorting through the medicine cabinet’s many, many bottles.  “I know we have still some left over from that time you sliced up your hand.”

“Butterfly stitches? Why do you need those?” Shachi said as he looked Penguin over for injury. “Did that guy cut you? ...Did you cut _yourself_? You look alright…” He put a hand to his chin. “Though, if you did cut yourself I’m sure you’re rather have Law fix you up, right?”

“I’m fine. I just...I need to fix someone else up,” Penguin said. “He tore the stitches I gave him a while back. If I don’t do something the wound won’t heal right, it’s possible that it might get nasty, and--”

“Wait, wait, hold on.” Penguin looked at Shachi, who was frowning at him. “Are you telling me that you found knife fight guy again? Where the hell did he come from?”

“After you ran off, I bumped into him,” Penguin responded, going back to rummaging. “I asked if I could check on him, and I saw that the stitching came undone in places.” He brightened up a little as he spotted the familiar box in the back of the cabinet. “Aha! There we are.”

Pulling it out, he counted how many unused stitches there were; plenty to handle the job. He closed the cabinet and faced Shachi again, who was visibly conflicted about whether or not he should let Penguin leave.

“What’s with the face?” Penguin asked.

“Wasn’t that guy from the alleyway really ungrateful for you helping him?” Shachi questioned. “Why are you even bothering to help him out this time, too? You’re going out of your way to do this and he’s totally taking you for granted.”

Well, that wasn’t false. Killer did seem to be more than content to push him around. But honestly he didn’t seem all bad, and something told Penguin that it was the right thing to do. Maybe it was against his better judgement, but he wanted to keep helping him out. At least until Killer was healed up, that is.

“He’s my patient, Shachi. I’m just doing my job,” Penguin finally replied before he pushed past Shachi and headed back out.


	3. Chapter 3

One of the perks of using a laundromat as a front was that, in between work shifts, any of the crew could walk out and use the facilities. Law owned it, which allowed them to use it for free whenever they liked so long as it didn’t interfere with work.

This didn’t change the awkwardness of Penguin walking out of the staff only door with a sack of dirty laundry, scrubs dirtied with blood and other body fluids. Shachi didn’t care about the odd looks, but Penguin preferred to use the machines at night. Despite being the only laundromat that was open late, few people tended to use it at that time, which made it the perfect time to be there.

Once the last scheduled appointment was over and the team was finished for the day, Penguin lugged his hefty bag of dirty scrubs and day clothes out from the closet he’d stuffed it into. He threw it onto his shoulder and carried it through the door into the tiny fake staff room where Shachi was waiting for him, ginger ale in hand.

“Jeez, you’re gonna do that all at once?” Shachi asked. “That’s like two weeks of laundry, man. You’ll be here all night.”

“I know,” Penguin said, groaning. “But I’ve been putting it off. If I don’t do it now, I’ll just have more work to do another night.” He passed by Shachi and put his hand on the doorknob leading out. “Leave the chain lock off tonight, okay?”

Shachi waved him off. “Yeah yeah, I won’t forget!”

Penguin turned away and rolled his eyes. Hopefully he wouldn’t be going from door to door asking for bolt cutters because Shachi turned on the cooking channel and passed out on the couch. He opened the door, the old hinges creaking as he did. Glancing around, it seemed as if the area was deserted. A few machines hummed, driers spinning blankets, washing machines rumbled with loads full of damp, heavy clothes. Whoever was using the machines wasn’t around, probably having stepped out to do something else.

He made his way over to two of the smaller washing machines; one for day clothes, one for scrubs. That’s how he liked to do things. He opened the washers, untied the drawstring bag, and began to sort his clothes, crossing back and forth between them. It was slow and mundane and he was really regretting not doing it another night or on his day off. Sleep...sleep sounded great.

With a yawn, he walked off to the tiny service counter and found the cabinet with the crew’s free laundry soap. It was half empty. He sighed.

“You only need to fill the cup _under_ the first line, Bepo,” he muttered.

Measuring just the right amount into the cup, he hurried back to the machines and filled them as needed. Then, with one of the rolls of quarters from the office, he added just enough into each before starting them.

Now, the wait began.

A few chairs lined the window. He settled down in the one on the far right by the aralia plant. It was only forty-five minutes until the loads were done...and then another hour until the drier was done. He yawned.

The staff door opened. Shachi stepped out with a bag of cheese puffs.

“I just closed up in there, I’m heading off now,” he said. “The twins are on night duty if you need anything.”

“Right, okay,” Penguin said with a nod. Then, he narrowed his eyes at Shachi’s selected snack. “...Wait, aren’t those the _stale_ cheetos Bepo left out yesterday?”

Shachi paused with one of the cheese puffs inches from his mouth. He looked down at the package, and then shrugged. “We all make sacrifices for the ones we love,” he said, eating said stale cheeto without a second thought. “Later, Pen! I’ll leave you some pizza.”

Penguin gave him a half wave as Shachi exited the building. Then, he sighed. Alright, what could he do to keep himself awake? He looked around and spotted a rack of magazines tucked underneath the chairs. Most of them were old, but it was better than nothing.

He pulled out several; a medical-themed magazine, probably one of Law’s old ones, a magazine filled with pictures of dogs, and a third which featured archaeology. He set the medical one aside and opened up the dog magazine. It was mostly advertisements for animal products marketed toward pet owners with too much money on their hands, expensive dog breeds...he flipped ahead to the articles. Dog training, questions for a veterinarian...boring.

Tossing that one aside onto a chair, he reached for the archaeology magazine. Some woman dressed in a cowboy hat was on the front. He opened to a random article, something about ancient, unreadable languages, and began to read. The article held his attention for maybe ten minutes before his ended up just staring at the pictures. He put his head in his hand, propping open the magazine with his knee. Some dig site in a town he’d never heard of was featured with the article.

Again, he yawned, pausing to rub his eyes. No, he wasn’t going to sleep. If he slept now, he’d probably sleep through the night right there. He squinted at the first paragraph of text again. The discovery of a poneglyph in Erumalu has archaeologists in high spirits. Nico Robin, the team manager hopes for more to be uncovered...more symbols and a possible translation……

Oh, this was so, so boring.

His eyes drooped. Maybe if he closed his eyes for just a minute...yeah. Just...just a couple minutes…

The loud sound of a magazine sliding out from his hands and onto the tile woke him immediately. He looked around.

Washing machines. Laundromat. Laundry. Right.

He stood up and rubbed his back. Oh, those plastic chairs were so, so bad for the back. The soft hum of the dryer had stopped, and Penguin wondered how long he’d been out. He checked his phone...and let out a loud, annoyed groan when it read roughly an hour and a half past closing time. He’d been out for almost an hour.

Laundry cart in hand, he hurried to his washing machines. The cycle had long since ended, leaving him with two loads of very wet, very heavy laundry to pile into the cart. Maybe he should’ve just annoyed Shachi to death with texts, killed two birds with one stone by keeping them both awake.

The front door opened. Penguin paused, a wad of socks in his hands. He did a double take. Killer was wedged in the door with a blue basket of laundry, dressed in an old shirt and some sweatpants. It...was probably the weirdest thing he’d ever seen.

Or, well, okay, it probably wasn’t _that_ weird for a thug who got into street fights to do laundry, but...

“What?” Killer said after they stared at each other for a moment too long.

Penguin coughed and looked away. “Uh, nothing. Didn’t know you used this laundromat too,” he replied, stuffing the socks into the wet pile.

“I don’t. My washer at home is fucked up. I have to come here until it’s fixed,” Killer replied.

He took his basket over to one of the larger washing machines and proceeded to dump the entire thing into the drum, no separation or sorting. Knowing that Killer probably didn’t want to hear about it, Penguin decided not to mention anything about this heathenry. Instead he rolled his cart of clothes over to the dryers and loaded two of them generously. He took a number of quarters out from the roll; he was starting to run low, hopefully he wouldn’t need to run the dryers a second time. Bepo’s office was closed and locked until morning.

Once the dryers were going, he took a seat back in the plastic chair and stuck the magazines back underneath. He was _not_ going to fall asleep this time. He drew out his phone and sent a message to Shachi, reminding him that he shouldn’t fall asleep either.

His attention was drawn back to Killer as the other man roughly closed the washing machine and shelled out some quarters--some of which spilled onto the floor, which made Killer curse. Penguin averted his gaze again, staring down at his phone for any response from Shachi. A minute or so later, Killer sat down next to him. Oh. Perfect. They were going to sit in silence and wait together. Penguin looked at Killer out of the corner of his eye. When Killer glanced at him, he discreetly looked away.

Well, this was awkward. Should he say something? What was he supposed to say? Hey, Killer, kill anyone interesting lately? He winced as he thought it--oh, god, the silence was way less weird. He pressed back into the seat, shoulders drooping, and he let out a quiet sigh.

“Did you finish him off?” Killer suddenly said.

“Huh?” Penguin asked, surprised to hear anything from Killer.

“Your shirt.” Killer gestured at Penguin’s shirt, which still had some nasty blood stains.

Penguin looked down at himself and chuckled. “...Oh, ha, no. She’s fine, gone off to live another day with her new kidney,” he said. “Or, actually, she’s probably still feeling that anesthetic...I should’ve changed, but almost everything I own is in that dryer right now.”

“Is it always that messy?”

“Surgery? Not usually,” Penguin replied. “I made the mistake of scratching an itch before removing my gloves…so stupid. My boss chewed me out for it.” He scratched his head. “I kinda deserved that…”

“Sounds like a minor problem to me,” Killer responded. “Why bother complaining about it?”

“Well, actually, there was the possibility of contamination. We see quite a few patients per day for a variety of reasons. If I’d seen someone else still dressed like this...” Penguin shook his head. “I was really lucky that was our last patient of the day.”

Killer was watching him now. “What other sorts of things do you do?” he asked.

“I’m surprised you’re even interested,” Penguin said with a smile.

A shrug. “I have forty-five minutes left to kill,” Killer said.

“Hmm...well,” Penguin began, “I’m on staff with the head surgeon so we get the big stuff, like kidney transplants. But most the time people come in for things like cosmetic surgeries, which is stuff the other teams handle.”

“I see.”

“I’ve worked under other people before but, man, nobody’s quite like the boss!” Penguin continued on. “He makes some _beautiful_ incisions. And I’ve already told you about his stitches…The guy’s an artist.”

“You sound infatuated with him,” Killer said with a snort.

Penguin looked at him, sneering. “What? Oh, _hell_ no,” he said. “He’s an amazing surgeon, but there’s like no chemistry between us. The guy’s super closed up outside of work. Besides, he’s my _boss_.”

Killer hummed, but said nothing more, and Penguin assumed the conversation was over. He checked his phone again. No news from Shachi, no surprise there. He eyed the dryers in the corner and the rainbow of clothes being tossed around. Every so often there would be a click, the sound of a button or metal zipper hitting the side as it spun around.

“Oh!” Penguin turned to look at Killer, focusing on his upper arm. “Hey, how’d your wounds heal up?”

Killer looked back at him and pulled back his sleeve to reveal….scars. The wounds had healed up alright, but those scars were a sight to behold. They were messy, jagged, and _ugly_ , if Penguin was honest. He groaned. He was a nurse for crying out loud, how could he have done such an awful stitching job? Maybe if he’d checked up more, kept in contact...

He looked away from Killer, feeling discouraged. Killer frowned at him.

“What’s wrong _this_ time?”

“Nothing. It’s just...augh, I should’ve done a nicer job patching those stitches up,” he said. “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault that your arm looks that way.”

“They’re fine,” Killer said, catching Penguin off guard.

“...Really?” Penguin asked incredulously.

Killer ran a hand over the bumpy, rough scars. Then he shrugged, and with a completely serious tone of voice, he said, “They make me look _rugged_.”

Penguin snorted, muffling a quiet chain of laughter. As if there there was any problem looking rugged originally, what with his _bulging biceps_ and _murder mask_. Killer looked at him oddly. He wasn’t annoyed, or angry, just confused. Penguin got himself under control just as his phone buzzed; Shachi sent him a message. A text full of emoticons and a picture of him next to a large container of fresh, extra-artificial cheese puffs. He rolled his eyes.

“I leave Shachi alone for five minutes and he runs off to buy things we don’t need again,” Penguin muttered.

“Shachi?” Killer questioned.

“He’s my roommate. He was at that convenience store with me a while back, remember him? Long red hair, floppy hat?”

Killer looked away to ponder this for a moment. Then, his eyes widened a little as he seemed to remember. “That guy eating the hot dogs no one would touch?” he asked.

“Yep, that’s Shachi,” Penguin said with a chuckle.

The two ended up talking for a while longer; about weird friends, day-to-day things, about the area and some of the people they’d seen around. It was surprisingly easy to talk to Killer, despite his intimidating outer features. Though he was a little gruff, he was fairly knowledgeable. He didn’t understand everything featured in Penguin’s work adventure stories, but he seemed to get the basics.

Somewhere in the middle of their chat the machines stopped and it took them a while to notice. They each scurried off to collect their things. Penguin pulled them one by one from the dryer, folding them and then tucking them into his bag. In hindsight he probably should have brought a proper laundry basket, but whatever.

“Hey, Killer?” Penguin asked as he carefully folded a pair of pants. “Where do you live?”

“Around,” was Killer’s reply, punctuated by the sound of something loud banging against the washer’s drum.

“Yeah I figured _that_ much, considering we keep running into each other,” he muttered. “Like, are you renting a place?”

“Sort of,” Killer said. He piled item after item into a wet mountain of laundry. “I own a place in the suburbs.”

“Oh, huh.” Penguin hesitated, wondering if was actually a good idea to ask. It wasn’t like they were...friends or anything. It was more like friend _ly_. He glanced at Killer, who seemed busy with his mounding. He gulped and glanced away. “Uh, would you...uh,” he said slowly, trying to find his words. “I mean we keep running into each other, so maybe, uh…”

He glanced at Killer, who was looking at him curiously. Then, he seemed to catch on. He pulled some loose paper and a small pen from his pocket, wrote something down, and approached Penguin with his arm outstretched.

“I’m a busy guy most days,” he said. “But I check my phone every so often.”

Penguin looked at the number in his hands with a grin on his face. Killer seemed indifferent, immediately going about his business. Penguin’s friend group mostly consisted of the nursing staff, so it was exciting to talk to someone that he didn’t see every day. It would also be nice to talk to Killer more outside of medical business.

But oh, Shachi was going to think he was crazy for trying.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five months.......I didn't even realize it'd been that long since I last updated. 
> 
> I have no plans to give up on this fic, you guys, so don't worry. But I'll probably continue being a little slow. There are unfortunately more important projects that I'm working on right now. But thanks a lot for sticking around!

When Killer told him that he was a busy guy, he hadn’t been kidding. 

Trying to get a hold of him was a nightmare; Penguin tried sending friendly messages or questions, and it would sometimes take Killer days to respond. And it was usually at three o’clock in the morning too which didn’t help any. It didn’t look very good for Killer either. What kind of work shifts from hell was he working that consumed that much time and left him awake that late?

Penguin hadn’t really been the type of guy to hover much over his phone. But soon it was becoming a bit of an addiction. He’d sneak glances at it while he had a free moment at work, he’d be on it while he and Shachi made lunch at home. Killer never said a whole lot, so it was all the more thrilling when he did text back.

Eventually he got a text one afternoon: Killer had a free day and he’d invited him over. 

It was just for lunch, but Penguin couldn’t help but feel excited about it. It had taken him half an hour to decide on something to wear. He wanted to look casual, but not too casual. Plus, he’d accidentally gotten cinnamon roll gunk on his shirt and like hell if he’d look like a slob in front of Killer. Again.

After he’d prepared himself, he grabbed his key and headed for the door. Shachi was laying across the couch watching some crime drama about a police officer. Penguin glanced at it. An undercover cop busts a casino for drugs? What a boring plot.

“Heading out?” Shachi asked, not breaking contact with the TV.

“Killer invited me over for lunch,” Penguin said.

“Don’t get stabbed,” Shachi said offhandedly as Penguin headed for the door.

Penguin looked at him tiredly. “Shachi, for the last time, he’s  _ not _ plotting anything,” he replied.

“That’s what they all say. He invites his victims in for coffee and some lighthearted conversation, maybe a little television, too. Then they get led away into the woods,” Shachi said, miming the supposed scenes with his hands for emphasis. “And you never see them again. Killer the killer strikes again!”

Shachi was silenced as Penguin tossed a throw pillow in his face. He snickered loudly as Penguin closed the door behind him.

It was rare occasions like this that Penguin wished he had a car. Truth be told he really didn’t need one; he lived close to town. But it was good exercise, he told himself. What better way to knock off those carbs than to go a little jogging through the suburbs?  He walked along the sidewalk. It was a fairly well-off area with trees lining the street. Traffic was fairly low today, but it was midday on a Thursday. He vaguely wondered how Killer managed to get the day off when he usually worked all week.

As he went along, he realized something: Killer’s house. He’d never even seen Killer’s house or even been in it. What could he expect from it? Penguin briefly imagined a man cave with a basement filled with burly gym equipment with posters and signs that detailed Killer’s love of pain. He snorted and laughed to himself.

Killer seemed for all intents and purposes a normal guy. He liked cooking, his favorite thing to eat was pasta. When he had time, he liked to practice playing the drums. He enjoyed the same television shows that everyone else liked. All in all he didn’t do all too much. But he seemed to actually like listening to Penguin’s quirky work stories, and that was nice. For a probably axe murderer, Killer was a pretty good guy.

After a while of walking, Penguin found the street name Killer had given him. A bit more walking, and he found the house address he was looking for tucked in between two larger houses.  Killer’s house was….well, it was fairly plain looking on the outside. Penguin wasn’t expecting much from the description Killer had given him, but there wasn’t anything interesting about the house at all. It was a sort of greyish blue color with a roof in desperate need of mending. The lawn looked like it had cut recently, but judging by the number of dandelions invading his grass, Killer didn’t give two shits about upholding perfect lawn care.

Penguin walked along the little cement path leading up to the front door, took in a deep breath, and knocked twice. Then, he took a step back and waited with a smile.

The door remained unopened. 

Penguin bounced on his heels and looked around the porch. A plastic bucket with some old potting soil was resting on a fold-out lawn chair bleached by the sun. Killer certainly was taking his time, wasn’t he? Penguin looked at the tiny window featured in the door and squinted. Nobody was walking around inside. Perhaps Killer hadn’t heard him. He knocked again.

Silence. Ten minutes blew by. He checked his phone. Killer hadn’t said he was leaving...

As he raised his fist to knock again, he heard a noise coming from the garage. He paused and listened. It sounded distinctly like someone scraping and cutting something. Penguin tensed. Shuffling. Scraping. The sound of tools being dropped haphazardly. 

Wh...what was Killer doing in there? 

More cutting. The clanging of metal against cement. It sounded like he’d dropped a large shovel. 

Penguin’s mind went to bad thoughts. Cutting….Scraping….large shovels...was Killer...was he cutting up a…? Finally the curiosity was nagging too much, and he went and looked, prepared for the worst. 

What he saw shocked him.

Next to a decent sized window was Killer, dutifully tending to a bunch of garden-variety plants in a tiny collection of makeshift pots. Some were in old shoes and cups, others were still in the plastic he’d bought them in. Within the tiny forest, Penguin could see some green tomatoes, what looked to be cucumbers, and a few hidden zucchinis. There was a bag of potting soil by his feet that was ripped open sloppily. There was also a pair of pruning scissors, a handheld rake, and a bigger shovel. Maybe Killer was planning to move them out into the yard?

Killer looked around for something. He looked at Penguin before going back to what he was doing. Then he lowered his arm, turned back around, and stared. Penguin stared back. Killed furrowed his eyebrows.

“What?” he asked. “Can’t a man take care of his plants?”

“You didn’t answer the door,” Penguin replied.

“...Oh,” Killer said.

“Yeah,” Penguin said. He walked up next to him and examined the plants. “Didn’t know you were into gardening.”

“It’s a stress reliever,” Killer replied. “And I like instant access to fresh vegetables.”

He gestured for Penguin to follow him inside through the door. The garage was directly near Killer’s living room, which was partially opened to allow easier access to the kitchen. It definitely reeked of a bachelor pad. The carpet was a very unhealthy grey color that implied it had never been cleaned. Penguin scrunched up his nose. There was a plastic laundry basket beside the couch, where it seemed Killer was stacking his remotes.

The kitchen was...well, it was an improvement. It reminded Penguin of when he and his university friends were too busy studying to handle anything else. Killer had a range, a microwave, piles of miscellaneous objects on the counter, and a bunch of dirty dishes in the sink. 

Yep. He definitely forgot that Penguin was coming. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Seems I’m not the only one you invite over,” Penguin muttered.

“Hm?”

“Ahaha, uh.” Penguin tugged down his hat. “Your place just reminds me a bit of my college days. I used to have friends over a lot. It got kinda messy.”

“I don’t have lots of time to clean,” Killer replied.

From one of the larger kitchen drawer, Killer pulled out a fairly good sized pot. He took it to the sink and filled it halfway with water. Penguin, not entirely sure on what to do, decided to just take a seat at the two person kitchen table and watch. Killer noticed him looking awkward after he set the pot of water on the stove.

“...About lunch,” Killer said. “I was going to make Aglio de Olio, but if you’d rather--?”

“Uh, no, that’s fine,” Penguin replied, not entirely sure what kind of food Killer was even referring to. He eyed the pot on the stove. Pasta maybe? “Sounds good to me. So long as it isn’t hot dogs I’m fine.”

That earned him an amused sound from Killer. He turned the stove on and set to work shuffling around the kitchen for various ingredients.

“So um,” Penguin spoke up. “What exactly is….uh….whatever it is you’re making?”

“Glorified pasta with herbs,” Killer said bluntly.

Penguin sat there, staring at Killer’s back as he watched the pot of water with his arms crossed. His pants and shirt sleeves were still smeared with potting soil. Killer looked like he didn’t give a shit. 

He couldn’t lie; being with Killer in person was a little bit...weird. He wasn’t exactly sure what to say to him. And Killer’s massive, muscular body was kind of intimidating. Even if they’d been talking for awhile it wasn’t like they actually  _ knew _ each other. Not yet. He shifted in his seat. The silence was starting to become awkward. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it.

Killer glanced back at him and he stilled. He wasn’t...judging him for being so quiet, was he? Penguin glanced away in an effort not to stare. Think of something to say, he thought, something that wasn’t awkward--

“Do you always wear that hat?” Killer asked.

Penguin looked back at him. Killer pointed at him with his chin. He rubbed one of the soft, fluffy flaps hiding his face between two of his fingers. 

“...Most of the time,” he said. “If I’m out and about I wear it. But I take it off when I’m home.”

Killer eyed the hat with interest. Fully expecting him to ask why on earth he wore a winter hat in the scorching heat of summer, Penguin decided to come up with an answer on the fly. Light sensitivity? Anxiety? A hideous scar? He couldn’t really think up anything that good. But Killer didn’t comment on it and went about his business.

“You’re going to go bald early,” he said.

Penguin perked up again with a smile. “Uh, well, actually that’s a myth,” he said. “Wearing regular hats won’t hurt your hair any. It’d have to be so tight that it’s constricting your head…”

Killer hummed and went back to watching the water slowly simmer. Penguin released the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He...He didn’t care about the silence, did he? Penguin rubbed his head. All of Shachi’s comments about death by Killer must’ve been getting to him. Killer was just an average guy. Who got into fights sometimes. Nothing scary about that.

He finally got up from the chair and went into the kitchen as Killer broke and dumped half a box of noodles into the boiling pot of water. Penguin hovered over it.

“Anything I can do to help?” He asked.

“Keep an eye on this,” Killer said, pointing at the pot. 

He walked away to the refrigerator and rummaged through a drawer. Penguin kept an eye on the noodles, occasionally stirring them. He glanced back as Killer began to chop what looked to be garlic and parsley into fine pieces. The speed that he did it had Penguin baffled. He then procured a small pan from a drawer, filled the bottom with olive oil, and turned on the heat.

So Killer could cook fairly well. That was...unexpected, to say the least. 

He watched Killer cook the finely sliced garlic with wonder as he tossed several other things into the pan. As the noodles softened to perfection, Killer reached into the pot with a glass measuring cup and took some of the boiling water. 

“You can strain these now,” Killer said. “Strainer’s in the sink already.”

“Right, okay.”

The whole process probably only took like ten minutes, but to Penguin it felt at least twice that. After dishing out equal amounts of the pasta into bowls--leaving plenty to spare--Killer shuffled away into the living room. Penguin followed behind him closely, still very much feeling strange. They sat down on the couch at opposite ends, and Killer switched on the television.

So here he was, on an old couch sitting next to a basket of dirty laundry with some pasta in his hands. Killer was shoving pasta into his face while making judgemental faces at the people cooking on TV. It was so painfully average. Penguin hadn’t expected anything super exciting to happen between them, but this...this was about as normal as could be. Killer was no different than anybody else.

His mind generated the image of Killer in an apron, dutifully folding laundry and choosing between two brands of dish soap at the store.

“...Pfft,” Penguin snorted. “Pffhahaha!”

Killer looked at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“It’s just--God, I’m sorry, this is just so ridiculous,” Penguin said. “When I got here I thought you were mutilating and burying a body, and then I thought this whole time you were some burly, scary macho guy, and now here I am sitting on the couch watching the damn Food Network. It’s so….it’s so  _ domestic _ .”

Killer watched him for a long moment. Then, he crossed his arms and looked back at the television. Penguin swallowed. Oh no, had that been the wrong thing to say? He wasn’t trying to sound judgemental, or say Killer was actually supposed to be a killer, but--

“If I was going to dispose of a body, I wouldn’t do it here,” Killer said finally. Then, after a moment of thought, he rubbed his chin and added, “It  _ would _ make good plant fertilizer, though. My tomatoes could use the extra help.”

Penguin let out another chain of laughter as Killer contemplated the differences between two fertilizers, only to be interrupted by a complaint directed at the television. Penguin twirled some pasta on his fork with a smile. 

Tomato plants and cooking advice...so much for Killer the killer.


End file.
